The Underdogs, a Story of the Mexican Revolution eBook

Another soldier, a bright young fellow, but a charlatan,
at heart, who drank habitually and smoked the narcotic
marihuana weed, eyeing him with vague, glassy stare,
whispered in his ear, “You know, partner . .
. the men on the other side ... you know, the other
side . . . you understand . . . they ride the best
horses up north there, and all over, see? And
they harness their mounts with pure hammered silver.
But us? Oh hell, we’ve got to ride plugs,
that’s all, and not one of them good enough to
stagger round a water well. You see, don’t
you, partner? You see what I mean? You know,
the men on the other side-they get shiny new silver
coins while we get only lousy paper money printed
in that murderer’s factory, that’s what
we get, yes, that’s ours, I tell you!”

The majority of the soldiers spoke in much the same
tenor. Even a top sergeant candidly confessed,
“Yes, I enlisted all right. I wanted to.
But, by God, I missed the right side by a long shot.
What you can’t make in a life-time, sweating
like a mule and breaking your back in peacetime, damn
it all, you can make in a few months just running
around the sierra with a gun on your back, but not
with this crowd, dearie, not with this lousy outfit
....”

Luis Cervantes, who already shared this hidden, im-placably
mortal hatred of the upper classes, of his offi-cers,
and of his superiors, felt that a veil had been re-moved
from his eyes; clearly, now, he saw the final out-come
of the struggle. And yet what had happened?
The first moment he was able to join his coreligionists,
in-stead of welcoming him with open arms, they threw
him into a pigsty with swine for company.

Day broke. The roosters crowed in the huts.
The chickens perched in the huizache began to stretch
their wings, shake their feathers, and fly down to
the ground.

Luis Cervantes saw his guards lying on top of a dung
heap, snoring. In his imagination, he reviewed
the fea-tures of last night’s men. One,
Pancracio, was pock-marked, blotchy, unshaven; his
chin protruded, his forehead receded obliquely; his
ears formed one solid piece with head and neck—­a
horrible man. The other, Manteca, was so much
human refuse; his eyes were al-most hidden, his look
sullen; his wiry straight hair fen over his ears,
forehead and neck; his scrofulous lips hung eternally
agape. Once more, Luis Cervantes felt his flesh
quiver.

VII

Still drowsy, Demetrio ran his hand through his ruf-fled
hair, which hung over his moist forehead, pushed it
back over his ears, and opened his eyes.

Distinctly he heard the woman’s melodious voice
which he had already sensed in his dream. He
walked toward the door.

It was broad daylight; the rays of sunlight filtered
through the thatch of the hut.

The girl who had offered him water the day before,
the girl of whom he had dreamed all night long, now
came forward, kindly and eager as ever. This time
she carried a pitcher of milk brimming over with foam.